Proof
by AmberKyep
Summary: It's just a matter of choice. You can be the proof that it's not genetics. Another of my SaraGrissom oneshots.


AN: Yay! antoher Sara/Grissom story, well sort of anyway. I like this one, I like it alot. But hey, let me know what you think. I love hearing reader feedback. I LOVE reviews. So, here you go, hope you like it.

* * *

"Put the gun down Cole," Sara said firmly to the man who was holding a gun on her. Sara's hands were shaking as she gripped her own weapon and pointed at the man.

"You'll have to kill me first," he said, feigning sweetness.

"I don't want to do that," Sara told him. The words were coming out of her mouth quickly. Not fast enough to make them garbled, but fast enough that she didn't believe what she was saying.

"Oh yes you do," Cole snapped, his voice losing al it's honey.

Sara could have protested but she didn't.

"They won't let you out of here alive," Sara pointed out, trying to keep the fear from her voice. She was, of course, referring to the police squads that were situated around the apartment Cole and Sara were in. Sara had done the stupid thing and went chasing the suspect. It was luck that Brass had caught on to what was going on.

"Oh no," Cole said softly, but Sara still heard every word. "They aren't going to kill me. You are."

Again Sara wanted to protest, and again she remained silent.

"You know you want to," he taunted her. This time Sara shook her head.

"You do," Cole insisted. "I'm a wife beater, a child molester. You hate me... I see it in your eyes. Who do I remind you of Sara?"

"No one," Sara said quickly, too quickly. A very smug, knowing smile came over Cole's face. He saw the truth in Sara's eyes.

"Who do I remind you of Sara," he taunted her. "Who do-"

He was cut off by Sara squeezing the trigger of her gun. But she didn't shoot him once, she shoot him three times. Three bullets buried themselves in Cole's skull. The man crumpled and hit the floor.

The apartment door was literally knocked off it's hinges. People swarmed into the apartment, including several paramedics and police officers. Brass was the first one to reach Sara.

"Sara," Brass started to say sadly, but Sara didn't wait for him to finish. She placed her gun in Brass's hand and turned to walk out of the apartment. Nobody stopped her, she knew they wouldn't. They could get her statement later, they didn't need it now.

She walked out of the building, and got in her car, and drove home. She tried to ignore the little voce in her head. The one that said that Cole wasn't going to pull the trigger. The voice that called Sara a murderer, a cold blooded killer. That little voice in her head that was telling her the truth.

* * *

It was four days since Sara shot Cole. Brass had gotten her statement, and told her Grissom had given her a week of vacation. In the end, it didn't matter to her.

Sara heard a knock on her apartment door. She was sitting on her couch, a blanket wrapped around her, staring off into nothingness. Wishing she could become a part of that nothingness, knowing she deserved it.

"Sara," called a voice through her door. It was Grissom's voice. Sara didn't want to get up, so she didn't. She didn't call out. She made no indication that there was anyone alive in her apartment anymore.

But Grissom obviously knew she was there. Sara had forgotten to lock her door, or maybe she didn't forget. Maybe she hoped he would come. In any event, Grissom tried the door, found it unlocked and opened it.

"Sara," he called again. Still Sara didn't answer. But Grissom saw her sitting on her couch, the blanket wrapped around her. Hiding the fact she hadn't eaten in days. Hardly even drank any water or anything.

Grissom sat next to her and still Sara remained silent, didn't even look at him.

"Sara," Grissom tried again. This time, his voice sounded deprave, caring. Sara turned her face, just enough to see Grissom. But again, she said nothing.

"Stop it," he told her. Sara needed no further elaboration. She knew what he was talking about.

"I'm a murderer," she said softly. Her voice was horse and dry.

"You're not," Grissom told her, reaching out a hand.

"I am," Sara shouted, flinching away from Grissom's hand. She scooted away as far as she could from him, nearly falling off the couch.

"You acted in self-defense," Grissom told her. Sara shook her head, her unkept hair swinging wildly around her head.

"No I didn't. I killed him because he reminded me of my father," Sara said, her voice very soft, like if was just enough if she said it. Nobody had to hear it. But Grissom heard it.

"And, I'm just following in his footsteps," Sara muttered. Her eyes were full of tears.

"Stop it Sara," Grissom insisted.

"Stop what," Sara exclaimed. "Stop telling the truth?"

"Sara," Grissom said, there was a hint of helplessness in his voice. He moved foreword and again, Sara tried to move away.

"You are not a murder. There is no such thing as a murder gene. You decided who you are Sara, who you become. Nothing is predetermined."

Sara looked at him, her eyes wide and tear filled. She moved a little closer, and then closer and she fell into his arms. He hugged her tightly, and realized that she hadn't eaten, had lost weight in just the space of four days. She was self destructing. He would have to stop her from self-destructing.

"You don't really believe that," she said. She sounded firm, sure.

"It doesn't matter what I believe," he told her simply.

"Yes it does," Sara insisted.

"No it doesn't," Grissom told her. "It matters what you believe. You can believe what you're saying, that genetics determine a violent disposition, or you can believe that it's just a matter of choice. You can be the proof that it's not genetics," Grissom told her.

She looked up at him, into his eyes and saw caring and kindness and truth there. And she decided.

She would be the proof.


End file.
